


Glitter in The Air

by Amethyst97Skye



Series: In the Minds of Murderers [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Avenger Loki (Marvel), Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Humor, Heartbreak, POV Second Person, Romantic Fluff, Song Lyrics, Tony Being Tony, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 10:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14376864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: "The course of true love never did run smooth." - William Shakespeare, 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'.





	1. Glitter In the Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Agentrogers17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agentrogers17/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Stone Cold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9539303) by [Agentrogers17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agentrogers17/pseuds/Agentrogers17). 



     You looked out to the dance floor, eyes scanning the multicoloured sea for a pair of glimmering, glittering golden shells. Their scaled, silken armour fitted them like a second skin – hers, a delightful warm rosewood, and his, a delectable blueberry wrapped in a coat of caramel – and, for once, their masks fell away, revealing wide smiles that let in and released the poisonous salt water.

     Beneath your bold red currant coat, your stomach squirmed, acid lashing at your walls for every gulp of venom you swallowed. You had never been one for salty snacks, your sweet tooth a fatal weakness your host liked to exploit at every given opportunity, but the drink in your hand, the liquid that sailed down your throat like wet cement, settling like concrete – heavy and hard and unyielding – tasted bitterly sour. You fought the urge to retch, to dry heave, but the shells took another twirl around the dance floor, darting in and out among the clumps of coral, splashes of seaweed, and shoals of sharks unperturbed. They span into one another, waves drawing them apart only to crash them back together. There was a moment, a second’s hesitation, your life hanging on a fish hook until their lips opened, met, engulfed, and that hook turned into a harpoon. It pierced your skin, your lungs, your heart. You crashed through the waves, salt blurring your eyes, heedless of the sharks, the seaweed, the colourful skeletons, mindless of the world around you until, finally, you felt the cold embrace of dry ground beneath your burning feet. You lost a shoe, a wine-red kitten you bought especially for this occasion, but you could not bring yourself to care, could not bring yourself to dive back down to the depths after a lost cause.

     Tugging the second free, you stumbled, careening into a door that only opened – _Thank you, JARVIS!_ – once you were standing on your own two feet. You gasped for breath between broken sobs, gagging before you reached the bathroom, vomiting your choice of venom and flushing it out of sight. You plastered your face with water, washing away the mask you made for the evening’s entertainment, scrubbing the salt from your skin, tearing off your armour one layer at a time. Your electric toothbrush sat innocuously on the side, and the toothpaste was such a rich mint it took three attempts to erase the evidence.

     It is not, you know, your room, but it will suffice for now. Pepper insisted you prepared for the party with her. Natasha joined you not long after, followed by Jane, and Darcy brought up the rear, looking for all the world that Christmas had come early. Buying a dress, and a pair of shoes was, it seemed, more than enough reason to celebrate, especially when it was you. They knew why you bought it. They knew who you hoped to impress, who you were emerging from your shell for, but it was their sacred duty to tease you, to help style your hair, to discuss accessories, to play with cosmetics until you could not recognise your own reflection. Their touch was light, their confidence inspiring, and you thought that tonight would be… different.

     The lights are off, but you prefer the dark, prefer the fact that, unless anyone presses their faces against the glass, you are invisible to the world representatives Tony invited to the Tower. Your legs shake with every step and, too weak to reach the bed, you collapse on the window seat, sprawling across the cushions until, by some twist of fate, you realise that you have a dreadfully perfect view of the party. Your eyes search for him without your permission. Perhaps he saw you leave. Perhaps he was concerned for you. Perhaps he followed you. Perhaps… But no. No, you can still see him, plain as day, dancing with _her_ , and that spiteful twist of your heart hurts. It is not your place to judge, you should have kept your opinions to yourself, but you could not keep quiet. You did not think it real, their relationship, if you could even call it that.

     You spoke with her – your first mistake – and she spoke with him, with Steve. She told him who she was, why she joined S.H.I.E.L.D., and it took some time, but he did not resent her nearly much as he _could_ have, did not object when she asked to move into the Tower. To help him train, to better educate him, to help him acclimatise to the 21 st century. They work together, depend on one another. Is it right for them to get involved like this? Since when does merging business and pleasure ever work? Maybe there is something there, something genuine, but is it healthy to cling to that? Steve still loves her, his dancing partner from 1945, and Sharon is… Is that kind of relationship healthy? What does he see when he looks are her? What does he see when he looks at _you_? How can you compare to a ghost, a memory, a fantasy?

     You tried to talk to him – your second mistake – but Steve would hear none of it, refused to put the past behind him, could not comprehend the fact that Peggy was dying, and that she might die without ever remembering he returned, that he had never forgotten her. You would not apologise for telling him the truth, for airing your concerns, for being honest with him. Could he not see that you cared? Could he not see that you had, when you accepted S.H.I.E.L.D.’s protection, been forced to leave everyone you knew, everyone you loved, behind? Could he not see that you understood what it was like to lose everything? Could he not appreciate what he still had? Could he not comprehend what you would give to say goodbye one – last – time?

     Your legs are like spaghetti, your stomach has contorted into knots, and your lungs are filled with cobwebs, but you hack through the pain and drag yourself over to the bedroom dresser. It is still here, your iPod and Stark-approved speaker, sitting sedately next to Pepper’s ornate jewellery box. You stab it for a song, desperate for something, anything, to distract you, just for a few minutes.

     The silence is deafening.

     You drifted away, back to the window, but you storm back over, slapped it flat with your palm, prompting a soft piano to play “Glitter In the Air”.

_Have you ever fed a lover… with just your hands?_

     You remember feeding Steve by hand, that time he came back from Mexico injured, his hands heavily bandaged, and you bribed him with breakfast in bed to get him to “talk”, to open up, to remove some of that weight settling on his shoulders. Much as he might believe it, he was not Atlas, and if you had to chop bacon into little itty bits to prevent that, you would gladly do so again.

_Close your eyes and trusted, just trusted…?_

     You remember waiting for Natasha, learning she came back late from a mission and joined Steve in one of his training exercises. He picked up where Natasha left off, positioning your body _just_ right, holding your body _just_ so.

     “You’re tense. Relax. You can trust me,” he whispered, and you did.

     You trusted him with everything you had.

_Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?_

     Darcy spent days searching for a particular brand of body glitter, multicolour flakes that worked with foundation, highlighting natural colouring, or joined forces with eyeshadow to embolden any appearance. If she used a little extra on you, no one commented upon it, and Pepper did not even object to her throwing it over your heads and, consequently, across the room. It looked like JARVIS had sent one of those little vacuum cleaners around, though, because you could not see any evidence such a scene had ever occurred.

_Have you ever looked fear in the face and said I just don’t care?_

     Did expressing your honest opinion count? Did looking him in the face, staring him in the eye, and refusing to back down count? Then why could you not ask the blasted man out on a date? How many chances had he given you? How many times had you chickened out?

_It’s only half past the point of no return -_

     You still have time, right? You could go down there and take charge, tell him what you have wanted to share for so long. But… would you cause more harm than good? Would he take it the wrong way? Is he still waiting for that damn apology? If so, he will be waiting for a good long while.

_The tip of the iceberg, the sun before the burn._

_The thunder before the lightning, the breath before the phrase._

     But you have to think of everyone else. Could Steve work effectively if you distracted him? Would your relationship with Sharon suffer if you tried to stake a claim? There was nothing wrong with the woman, you got along well with her, had even gone out to lunch together, but there was just something about their “relationship” that made your skin crawl. And yet, Sharon will forever be a part of his life that you can never know about. The Avengers, their work, Thor’s tireless efforts to track down the Chitauri Sceptre, Steve’s work with Natasha, with S.H.I.E.L.D., with Sharon… it all comes first. He can put _her_ first. _You_ would always come second. And, to add insult to injury, she was sporting a marvellous tan when she came back from Morocco. You, however, have always burned in the sun, never tanned, and you never thought that a failing before. It was just… part of who you are.

_Have you ever felt this way?_

     No, you have not… but Steve has. He felt it for Peggy, probably feels it for Sharon. How can you hope to compare to his expectations? You are not a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent or an Agent of any kind. You are a civilian, and Steve will always treat you like one.

_Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone?_

     You remember the times – many, many, _many_ times – Steve cancelled an appointment, asking to talk to you later or catch up tomorrow. Your face was glued to your phone, then, wondering when he would call, when he would text, where he was, what he was doing, and who he was doing it with. That was not – _is_ not – any of your business, but you wondered all the same. And now you think you have your answer. Steve’s answer.

_Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you’re not alone._

     He always lit up when she called. He would put that ring on Sharon’s finger. Maybe to honour Peggy, maybe to appease his own sense of guilt, maybe because he honestly loved the woman, maybe a combination of all three. You just knew, now – suddenly, it was all so very clear – that he would _never_ put that ring on your finger. Was that why he always texted you instead of calling? Because he was afraid of what you would say?

_Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?_

_Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?_

     A hand on your shoulder, those hands steadying your waist, instructing you how to breathe as you flushed every shade of red in the universe. The door he left locked to you, but open for her. The door _you_ left unlocked, opened, the door he walked passed every day.

_It’s only half past the point of oblivion -_

     You want to forget, to pretend none of it ever happened, that you did not just buy a dress and your first pair of heeled shoes for no reason. You want to put it – her, him – out of your mind, but so long as you live here, so long as you exist in the same space as them, imprisoned in between, you cannot.

_The hourglass on the table, the walk before the run -_

     You have to make a move, a decision, sometime soon. Better later than never, they say, but it is always better to be early than late, to act sooner rather than later? You are not getting any younger. But, if you _did_ ask; if you went behind Sharon’s back after Steve had already committed himself to her… what kind of friend did that make you? Did Steve even consider you a friend at all anymore?

_The breath before the kiss, and the fear before the flames -_

     Steve kissed Sharon, and he was, most certainly, not under any kind of compulsion or duress. He acted of his own free will, and you cannot fault him for that, even if you disagree with his decision. But you are not a neutral party. Will it ever seem like a good decision when you feel this way? And if you laid your heart bare before him, if you told him how you truly felt, and he rejected you… how would you bare _that_? Or worse: how would Sharon handle it if Steve chose you instead of her? Could you do that to her? Could you destroy your friendship over something so superficial as a crush?

_Have you ever felt this way?_

     You find yourself thinking back, long ago, to that fateful day he laughed and cried over fondue, explaining his mistake through his tears. No, you have never done anything even half as spectacular as that, and you do not plan to. If Steve meant so much to you, you would have already acted on your feelings, fear be damned.

_La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la._

     You are not listening, you cannot hear. Not this, not that, not them –

_There you are, sitting in the garden, clutching my coffee._

     You _hate_ coffee, despise it with a passion. Oh, it smells _wonderful_ , but it tastes terribly bitter. Ten sugars later and it still tastes terrible. Steve laughed over that, said you should stick to tea as he stirred milk into his own, taking in how Bruce’s greenhouse had grown.

     He said that Peggy preferred tea.

     You still need five sugars in yours.

_Calling me sugar._

_You called me sugar!_

     He _did_ call you “sugar”, but he did not mean it like that. It did not _mean_ anything. Not to him. It was just a casual endearment to pair with that tight, tired smile. Who knew that Captain America was a caffeine fiend?

_Have you ever wished for an endless night?_

_Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight._

     You remember, one night, home alone, when you dug out all the old recordings of Steve’s Broadway show. Phil let you borrow them with the strictest of instructions on how to play them, how to store them, and how to contact him in the event of an emergency. You remember Steve joining you, unable to sleep, groaning deliriously at his legacy as The-Star-Spangled-Man-With-A-Plan. He even used an improved lariat to catch a spy in the theatre, once. He fell asleep on the couch beside you, vulnerable as a new-born baby, a real smile spread across his coffee-stained lips.

_Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself will it ever get better than tonight?_

_Tonight…_

     He was perfectly content, then, and you had not thought it could get better than that. You should have known that it would only get worse, that he would never relax like that around you again. That he could never be seen as weak next to a weakling.

     For reasons you cannot comprehend, the song starts playing again, but your head and eyes and throat and lungs and heart _ache_ so from crying that you scramble over, feet dragging across the floor, devoid of all energy, to turn off the offending machine, but you cannot see the buttons clear enough to command it. Slapping does not work. Neither does smacking. Pink just simply starts singing the song again, and again, and again, and now you are hitting her, slamming your fist down atop the stupid thing, your cries for her to just “SHUT UP” muffled behind your brawling gasps for breath.

     You heard nothing, felt nothing, sensed nothing, left yourself vulnerable, exposed, alone and unarmed. The hand that grabs your flaying arm is ice cold and it makes you start, makes you turn around, fear etched into your very being. With one arm captured, and the other holding the dresser, steadying yourself, you have no choice but to blink your vision clear.

     You wish to the Gods that you had not.


	2. Glitter In the Air: Reprisal

     His name is suffocated by a sob but he shushes you, draws you close, and you must look a complete mess, but he does not care. For that, you will be eternally grateful. Your body rests against his, short where he is tall, weak where he is strong, his hand soothing your red flesh, just a shade or two paler than your dress. There will be bruises, and writing is going to agony for the next few days, but you do not care. The pain is easing, you can breathe again, get yourself under control, and he just stands there, stroking your hair, fingers drawing out the heat that made it straight, resurrecting the waves and half-hearted curls that invoke your anger every morning.

     Several moments pass. Maybe minutes. Could be hours, you do not know, not until your legs are shaking and you are being led back towards the window seat, the party long forgotten. You do not so much as sit as fall, perfectly graceless, but you do not pretend otherwise, and he crouches before you, hands never leaving yours, eyes gauging everything about you. You feared that gaze, once, but you know, right now, that it is not critical but concerned.

     Oh, the irony! How your roles have reversed.

     Pink has started singing again – you do not think she ever stopped, despite your best attempts – and that is when you notice the golden glitter clinging to his upper lip. You think nothing of removing it, but your hand, still red, still trembling, stops shaking when he places a cool, dry, chaste kiss on the fingers he holds. Your heart gives a funny skip as if it has forgotten how to beat.

_Have you ever fed a lover… with just your hands?_

     He did something very similar when, late one Friday night, when you were both home alone, you corralled him into cooking dinner with you. Desert came much later, and at great expense, but you considered the evening a success. You fed each other pieces of your masterpiece between irate comments about, pretty much, every Avenger. They would all sooner order a takeout than cook a fresh meal from scratch. They did not know what they were missing.

_Close your eyes and trusted, just trusted…?_

     It feels shockingly real, the memory, the experience of standing on the top floor of the Avengers Tower, staring dizzily through the elevator’s glass bottom. He was there for you then, right when it counted. He offered out an arm, despite his dislike of physical contact, and you clung to him the whole ride down, convinced the brakes had failed and that, with every level you passed, you were falling faster, and faster, and _faster_ – But you survived. He walked with you, helped support you, sat with you outside in the small exterior garden designed to awe and amaze visitors, waited until you were certain the world had stopped spinning. He never said anything, never criticised you, never looked at you any differently than he had before. It was rarely so paralysing, your fear, but he did not think you any less for it. Perhaps because you had practically begged for his help. Perhaps not. You could not even remember asking for it. He was just there, a perfect gentleman, right when you needed him.

     He could have left, could have told everyone, could have lorded it over you for the rest of his life, but he did nothing of the sort. You knew it well enough, that his heart was not nearly so stone cold as he pretended; but knowing it and realising just how thick that mask was, they were two completely different things. He had, after all, turned down an invite to Asgard to make, surely, sub-par food with a Midgardian.

     You thought, back then, and even now, that he had been ordered to stay behind, to babysit you, but what if it had been his own choice? What if he had stayed for other reasons besides the obvious? What if he stayed… for you? Could something so fantastical ever be true? Did you even thank him? You cannot remember. Why can you not remember? Did you ever tell him how much it meant, not to be alone, to have someone you could rely on? Did he have the elevator floor changed? Tony probably did all the work, but the recommendation… it _had_ to come from him. No one else knew. You made absolutely sure of that.

_Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?_

     Dimly, you think he used Pink as a cue to throw the snowball. It is hardly larger than an egg, but he throws it high, and you watch it explode, exclaiming in glee when it starts snowing inside Pepper’s bedroom. The flakes are cold, the details indiscernible to your eyes – you forewent glasses tonight and poking yourself in the eye never held much appeal – but the flurry is undeniably beautiful in the way the first snowfall of winter always is. You snag the tissue box before it gets soaked, absentmindedly cleaning your face as you marvel at the feeling that you are standing inside a modern-day snow globe.

_Have you ever looked fear in the face and said I just don't care?_

     You turn back to him then, a large smile plastered on your face, and he is sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the window seat, watching you, a much smaller – but no less sincere – smile twisting his lips in such an innocent, charming manner you have to do a double take. If his eyes crinkle a little more, and his lips stretch a little wider… Well, perhaps he is just thinking about home. Does it even snow in Asgard? You do not think so, but you never asked.

_And it's only half past the point of no return -_

     He did, however, ask you about mortal relationships, once. How they changed from their medieval counterparts, how they compared to Asgardian courtship – which sounded dauntingly demanding, but exciting and enticing at the same time – and he even admitted his concern for Thor and Jane. You were honest with him, said you did not think that such an entanglement of circumstances would last, and you were right, but they broke it off amicably, parting on mutual terms, and that had, somehow, brought them closer, forming a friendship from the confusion, and Darcy was not going to look a gifted god in the mouth. There was also rumours that Sif might be joining them.

_The tip of the iceberg, the sun before the burn -_

     It was as you leaned down to join him – the carpet was comfortable, after all – when your spine snapped straight with the realisation. Stupid. So _stupid_. How stupid could one mortal be? The Avengers Initiative, the progress S.H.I.E.L.D. had made, the tireless work Steve and Thor conducted on a daily basis – none of that would have been possible without him, without Loki.

_The thunder before the lightning, the breath before the phrase…_

     You are backing away on unsteady legs when he stands, face flash frozen in an expression you have no mind to decrypt, startled – as you often are – that he is still here. After everything he did, after everything he has done since, Loki has spent his sentence, finished his exile on Earth, received permission from the All-Father and the blessings of the All-Mother to return home, but he is – still – here! A frightful thought crosses your mind as he advances, pausing only when you stumble back, sitting on Pepper’s bed.

     Did he stay for you?

_Have you ever felt this way?_

     You push the thought away – throw it out the door, but it flies back like a boomerang – as soon as it surfaces because it is impossible. Not to mention selfish, self-serving, and so damnably prideful, what would your mother say if she could see you now? You talked about this with him. Loki was powerful, that you could not deny – especially since he got his full powers back – but he was not, you argued, a God. A demi-god, perhaps, but not a God. Gods, you believe, can not – _would not_ – bleed. Be it red blood or golden ichor, true Gods did not bleed. They may not even possess a physical body. Loki would live for thousands of years (five, if what you had garnered from Thor was correct, but Loki’s biology was likely different from the average Asgardian) but he would grow old, and he would die, just like you. He was not a God. Not truly.

_Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone?_

     He has taken your hands again, knelt in front of you, and his lips are moving, but you cannot make sense of the words, your mind a million miles away, even as your eyes remain glued to his. Why are they green? Was that Odin’s magic? Was Loki influencing it now he knew? He told you, long ago, after you complained how cold he was, that he should take better care of himself. He told you how it took such effort to control as a child, so fearful of anyone seeing what magic did to him when he could not command it. It was not magic, of course, but blood, though they are not so separate, depending on the sentience and power of the soul in question. Regardless, he _told_ you. He told you far more than you ever thought he would. He even told you things you were not supposed to know, like mission updates, and who might need to borrow your ears when they returned.

     He called you, once, in the middle of a mission. You though the target had been a smokescreen, a decoy, but it had, in fact, been worse – far worse – than any of them could have ever anticipated. He was alone, injured, cut off from the team, and he called _you_ , asked for help, for guidance, for any information you had at your fingertips.

_Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone..._

     Is it such a large jump from him handing his life over to offering his heart? Open, bare and beating, if he offered, would you accept? Would he accept yours? What are the chances that Loki, Lord of Mischief, Chaos and Fire, would accept a declaration of love from a mortal?

     Now, you realise, that you want that answer to be a yes.

     It is inescapable, comparing him to Steve. It feels as if their personalities have been reversed. There is far more to Steve than he lets on, but he refuses to let you in. You would think that a demi-god with a thousand years under his belt would be ten times more private than a hundred-year-old soldier. Apparently not. Maybe he is just… lonely. You know how that feels, know how that hurts.

_Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?_

     Loki has dropped beside you, hands outstretched to brush away the tears that fall, but only succeeds in conjuring more. His touch is cold, calming, refreshing, and feather-light, but he does not treat you with the fragility of glass, but the beauty of a sculpture carved from solid ice. You know he is afraid of marring you, of breaking you in a way that will shatter more than your brittle bones. How many times has he fallen into despair over his parentage, his almost-immortality, his fear of repeating past mistakes?

_Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?_

     You _need_ to know if he feels the same way, if that was why he tried to breach the topic in the first place, or if you are a hopeless emotional wreck reading too much into a depressingly desperate situation. You _need_ to know if… if he was – _is_ – trying to court you. If he is just a concerned friend – and yes, you consider _Loki_ a friend, one of your closest, one of the first to accept the “talking” sessions you offered, and the first to offer it in return – then that is fine. You will still know that you are loved.

_It's only half past the point of oblivion._

_The hourglass on the table, the walk before the run -_

    You _need_ to know if falling through, and surviving in, the void between realms is as terrifying as you imagine. His life was cut impossibly short when he was forced to make a king’s decision. He never even got to say ‘goodbye’. He should _never_ have had to, should never have been forced to fly before he could walk, let alone run. You _need_ to know what he was thinking when, in a stupid, stubborn feat of foolishness, he teleported himself _halfway around the world_ to reach you, to protect you from the new and improved Viper assassins that attacked the Tower. They were assets of Cobra, a criminal organisation that reared its head after Hydra’s “defeat”.

    How many bullets did he take for you that day? How long did he spend recovering in Helen’s cradle? How many times did you beg him _not_ to die? As if he had control over such forces.

_The breath before the kiss, and the fear before the flames._

     When you lean forward, Loki catches you, sits beside you, draws you closer until you are resting against his chest, lying across Pepper’s bed, his arms wrapped around you as if he will never let go. He kisses your crown, stealing the words from your mouth, the air from your lungs, and his fingers card through your hair, his caress soothing even as it burns. Your fingers grasp at his shirt, something expensive Tony recommended – he had to look the part of an Avenger after all – and everything you want to ask, to say, to declare is released in a single word, a breathless gasp that, were he human, he would have mistaken for a sob. He draws you closer, your bodies pressed together, legs half intertwined, and tightens his hold, whispering that he has no intention of going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever, he does not say, but it is, you feel – you _hope_ – implied in his voice, rawer than you have ever heard.

_Have you ever felt this way?_

     The thought does not bear contemplating. Your heart cannot handle the strain.

_La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la._

     He says nothing, does nothing, except comb your hair with his fingers, and you find yourself listening to his heart, focusing entirely on the steadying beat. Your eyes, scrunched up as if in pain, relax, and though you do not open them, too afraid to find out if this is all a wonderful, cruel dream, Loki kisses your crown again. This time, his lips linger, and you whimper, stifling a sound you cannot name, a reaction that has you shivering, clinging closer to him, and he accepts without hesitation.

_There you are, sitting in the garden, clutching my coffee._

     When you _had_ to escape the Tower, Loki took you to the Botanical Garden, identifying ingredients used in beneficial remedies, and reagents used in some horrifying poisons. He drilled you with knowledge for hours, and you spent a small fortune procuring plants for Bruce’s greenhouse from a nearby garden store. You remember that day because it rained, and your _de facto_ bodyguard brought you a hot chocolate. With _extra_ marshmallows.

_Calling me sugar…_

_You called me sugar…!_

     He called you “darling”. And you may have called him a “sweetheart”.

_Have you ever wished for an endless night?_

     If there was any way to just stop time, to freeze this moment and enjoy it for eternity, you would be sorely tempted. You wanted every night to be like this one, like it is right now, peaceful and perfect like the nights he made you ride to the top of Tower so you could star gaze.

_Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight._

     You lay on the roof, and he lay beside you, quizzing your terrible memory. He teased your lack of knowledge and offered to tutor you in the finer points of astrology.

_Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself –_

     You steel your courage and open your eyes. Loki is watching you, emerald eyes appraising, but not judging, sparkling when you offer him a small smile. You shuffle upwards, because he is so Gods-damn _tall_ , and nestle your head against his shoulder to whisper a “thank you”.

     “Don’t be silly, darling,” he deflects, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, drawing you closer. “I haven’t done anything.”

_Will it ever get better than tonight?_

     You could shout and rage and rant until you are blue in the face, but it would accomplish nothing. Loki puts your stubbornness to shame, and there are far more effective ways to get your point across.

_Tonight…_

      “Liar,” is your reply, and had he not moved away… you would have sealed your declaration with a kiss.


	3. Beautiful

     Where did you go wrong? That is all you can think, though the desire to put as much distance between you overpowers that thought as soon as you sit up. You do not see his face, cannot see the pain carved there, but you can hear it in his voice as he calls after you, your name ringing with such a desperate tone that your feet falter. Just for a moment, but that second’s hesitation is all Loki needs because he is rising, standing, reaching out to you in a heartbeat. As he draws you back towards the bed, your feet padding softly across the carpet, Loki sits, and you think you know what he is going to say, so, you say it first.

     “Remove this.”

     Your fingers stroke across his cheek, first the left, then the right, finding the skin no warmer than usual, but damper than you expected. Your eyes are bloodshot, there is no denying that, and you cannot see well enough to discern whether Loki’s are even minutely affected, but the conclusion still stands.

     “Remove this,” you repeat, fingers growing bolder in their exploration.

     There is no name for the look on Loki’s face, no word to describe it, but the anguish, the fear, the confusion – all and more are apparent, fighting for domination. His arms have encircled you, kept you close, but when he says nothing, does nothing, and you take a daring step backwards, his face breaks along with your heart.

     Further and further you go, fingers strolling down his bare arm, clamping down on his hand as you walk around the bed to the dresser. Your iPod is still sitting there, oblivious, and you silence Pink in favour of a new voice. It is, perhaps, a little crass, but this is a gut feeling, damn it, and you are going with it. Heimdall only knows when you will have this chance again. That thought makes you pause, but Christina Aguilera tells you not to look, so you turn away, turn back to him, your hand still clasped in his, swallow the knot in your throat and start singing.

     “Every day is so wonderful. Then suddenly… it's hard to breathe. Now and then I get insecure, from all the pain, I'm so ashamed.”

     Your voice is rough, raspy, but intelligible. His protests come fast and furious, but you are back by his side and silencing him with a single finger. His lips are soft, cold. They quiver under your touch.

     “I am beautiful no matter what they say. Words can't bring me down. I am beautiful in every single way. Yes, words can't bring me down… Oh no oh. So don't you bring me down today.”

     You know that face (you make it often enough) but now is not the time for apologies, even one as circumspect as Loki’s. He has yet to release your hand, and as your free fingers creep up his opposite arm, he lets the others go, allowing them to copy their twins.

     “To all your friends, you're delirious. So consumed… in all your doom, ooh… Trying hard to fill the emptiness, the pieces gone, left the puzzle undone. Ain't that the way it is?”

     Scaling over his biceps quickly, and practically flying over his shoulders, your hands reach his cheeks just in time for the next stanza, and you put all your heart into it.

     “You are beautiful, no matter what they say. Words can't bring you down… Oh no. You are beautiful in every single way. Yes, words can't bring you down… Oh no. So don't you bring me down today.”

     There are tears – _real_ _tears_ – scrolling down his face, and you try to brush them away like he did for you, pausing when his skin seems to bruise.

_No matter what we do (no matter what we do)_

_No matter what we say (no matter what we say)_

_We're the song inside the tune (yeah, oh yeah)_

_Full of beautiful mistakes._

     But no… it is turning blue, the colour spreading with your finger, opening like the petals of a flower after a winter’s frost, scared but undeterred, and then _you_ are crying because he _trusts_ you enough to do this, to let you _see_ him like this. Over his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, and back down to his chin, your hands link around his neck, and his arms lock around your waist, hands gradually coming to rest against your back.

_And everywhere we go (and everywhere we go)_

_The sun will always shine (the sun will always, always)_

_And tomorrow we might awake on the other side (shine)_

     He opens his eyes, your breath catches, and his lids slam shut.

     “‘Cause we are beautiful, no matter what they say,” you sing. “Yes, words won't bring us down, oh no. We are beautiful in every single way. Yes, words can't bring us down. Oh no. So don't you bring me down today.”

_Oh, oh, oh… don't you bring me down today, yeah…_

_Don't you bring me down, ooh… today…_

     Your words trail off, and you let Christina finish, mesmerised as you are by Loki’s red, red, _red_ eyes. They are too bright to be the colour of blood, bright like gemstones, like rubies and garnets, but there is an otherness to them, a wildness that radiates the cold heat of unquenched desires. His face is set, as if preparing for battle, the trails of tears freezing the moment they come into contact with his skin. You let one hand glide through his hair slowly, absentmindedly, and you bring the other to his cheek, eyes seeking permission before first touching with the tip of your nail, then the pad of your finger, and finally your whole hand. Loki sighs, his shoulders fall, his eyes close, and whenever you stray over a whorl of flesh, a natural pattern of hardened skin, he shivers. One of his hands, Aegean blue now, not ivory white, finds its way to your face, and you tilt your cheek into his embrace, hooded eyes watching him through heavy lashes.

     Your fingers trail over his lips, darker and thicker now, a little like leather, and Loki copies you, eyes suddenly open and alert, drinking in your face as if he is seeing you for the first time. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he sees differently without magic clouding his senses. But that is a question for a much later date. Right now, there are far more pressing concerns. You want to see if those ridges and whorls are as sensitive as they seem. The harsh breath that blasts across your skin answered that clear enough. Your trade your lips for your tongue, indulging in the deep-seated groan he does not quite silence, transforming it into a distinctly inhuman growl. From his cheek, you travel down to a small ridge nestled near his chin. A kiss, a lick, a little suction, and Loki steers you, angling your head for a kiss that, after several seconds, makes him hiss out the instruction to _breath_.

     His starved skin relishes your gasps of hot air, but Loki’s second kiss is just as powerful as the first, but tamer, to prolong the pleasure. He pulls you flush against his chest, hands roaming for the best position, and you respond automatically, rising to straddle him, forcing him to choke out a strangled “Darling” between kisses before the sharp, hot whips of his tongue and the cold embrace of his own mouth make you moan, leave you writhing for more.

     You _have_ to pull away for air, and Loki takes the opportunity to ravage your neck to an almost incoherent chant of his name. It takes both hands, and a harsh yank, to pull his head back and kiss him, the act tipping you both back onto the bed. Your new position does not permit you to dominate so aggressively, and soon Loki is guiding you through a waltz that leaves your mind floating blissfully above your pleasure riddled body.

     Neither of you hears the knock at the door or the voices behind it, but you most definitely hear Pepper’s scream.


	4. Unbelievable

     “Walk. Don’t run. Everything is fine –”

     “You don’t know that.”

     “Everything _is_ fine until we learn otherwise, Tony. Keep smiling. We still have guests to entertain.”

     “I still don’t see the point of this. I’d much rather spend the evening alone. With you.”

     “I know it’s – Wait. What? Really?”

     “Think we can arrange something for next month? A long weekend in Paris, perhaps.”

     “Anthony Edward Stark –”

     “Am I – Why am I in trouble? I thought this would be a good thing!”

     “I – You – Where did this come from?”

     “Our resident psychiatrist –”

     “She’s _not_ a psychiatrist, Tony. She doesn’t have a doctorate.”

     “After enduring us for the last, what? Two years? I say she bloody well deserves one. Hey, don’t give me that look. When have you ever disagreed with her advice?”

     “…What did she say?”

     “I should ‘get out more’, whatever that means. Oh, and missions don’t count, apparently.”

     “And you think a weekend in France is going to solve all your problems?”

     “A _long_ weekend, yes. But only if you come with me. Think about it?”

     “…I’ll need to assess her reasoning, work out the costs –”

     “So, it’s a yes?”

     “It’s not a yes, Tony.”

     “It’s not a no, either. Um. What’s that?”

     “What’s what?”

     “Something on your lip. It looks very much like – But it couldn’t be!”

     “Tony!”

     “I should check, just to be sure. It’s been a while since I’ve seen something so exquisite. Now your cheeks are changing colour!”

     “Go find Natasha. Can you handle that?”

     “Can we go to France?”

     “I… _might_ be inclined to say yes. _If_ you’re quick.”

     “Be back in a flash.”

     Leaving Tony Stark to his own devices was, even in the best of circumstances, a risky decision. There was no end of damage he could do alone, never mind the contributions his teammates inevitably made, but life had been – dare she say it – relatively easy lately. It had been positively pleasant, though there was some underlying tension smouldering beneath their noses, and Pepper was certain something had boiled over tonight.

     Your dress, the colour of a ripe scarlet apple, was bold enough to make a statement, but the style soft enough to make a calm declaration rather than a boisterous announcement. It drew eyes and admirers whenever you walked up to the bar, joined the guests at the buffet, or took a spin on the dancefloor, and Pepper was not exaggerating when, later tonight, she would be shredding no fewer than six marriage proposals. They arrived almost daily for the rest of the team, but Tony staked his claim on you, declared you an honoured guest and treasured friend, and suddenly you were in the limelight. It could have happened under much worse circumstances, and six was still innocent, especially when compared to Natasha’s record of twenty-two. It had, however, failed to attract the only person you had eyes for. At one point, it had even sent you to the bar for a drink, and your face said it all. You could be assertive when it was demanded of you, particularly in the “sessions” you set aside for New York’s aspiring superheroes. Whatever you said to Steve last week had hit a nerve, and in light of your manner of dress, Pepper had expected someone to explode tonight. But she had not anticipated it to happen like this.

     “JARVIS, where is she?”

     “She has retired to your room, Miss Potts, but –”

     “Is she distraught?”

     “Her blood pressure and heart rate are elevated, but –”

     “Thanks, JARVIS.”

     “Miss Potts, I would advise against –”

     “Normally, I would agree with you, JARVIS, but after tonight, she is going to need someone to talk to.”

     “But she is already –”

     “Is she asleep?”

     “No, but –”

     “Then it’s alright, JARVIS. Thank you for your concern. And where is Tony?”

     “Approaching from the north side with Miss Romanoff and Mr Wilson. He has informed them of the situation, but I must insist –”

     “I can see them. Thank you, JARVIS.”

     “Has he been pestering you? He’s been pestering me.”

     “Why do I bother?”

     “I ask myself that question every day.”

     “Why don’t you pick a few feathers with your Captain, birdbrain?”

     “ _He’s_ the birdbrain, Tony. And I’m pretty sure you and I don’t need to be here for this.”

     “We’re offering support. Extra support. Nat can kick his ass tomorrow –”

     “If I wasn’t already considering it, you would be a dead man, Stark.”

     “Please don’t kill Tony.”

     “Yes, please don’t kill Tony. I’m taking myself and Pepper to Paris next –”

     “I didn’t say yes!”

     “You didn’t say no, either.”

     “If I might make a suggestion –”

     “No, JARVIS, you may not. We're offering all our moral support and kicking Capsicle’s ass.”

     “ _I’m_ doing the ass kicking.”

     “And I still say four’s a crowd. A _large_ crowd. Perhaps Pepper and Natasha –”

     “Why can’t I help? What’s wrong with –”

     “There’s nothing wrong with –”

     “– helping my friend and teaching that son-of-a –”

     “– a bit too far because Steve –”

     “– learn it’s not 1945 anymore, and he can’t –”

     “– just looking for what you and Pepper have. Why –”

     “Think it’ll turn into a catfight?”

     “If Tony breaks out the armour, I won’t have time to go to France.”

     “So, you _have_ accepted.”

     “…Keep quiet, and you can come.”

     “Deal. Now, shall we leave the ladies to hiss and spit?”

     They only made it as far as the door before Tony bounded up behind them, easily beaten by Sam, who insisted that they waited outside until Pepper called for reinforcements.

     “Why –”

     In an instant, Sam clapped his friend on the shoulder and turned him aside to speak directly in his ear. “She locked herself in _Pepper’s bedroom_. Do you _really_ want to lose free access?”

     “ _Augh_ …! Think about Paris. Think about Paris. Think about Paris –”

     “Go ahead. I got him.”

     Pepper cupped her hands in thanks, pulling a face Sam was all too familiar will, as Natasha knocked on the door. Tony stopped chanting, ears peeled for the slightest sound, but there was no response. Natasha knocked again, prompting Pepper to speak.

     “She’d have heard that. Right…?” Sam frowned.

     Pepper’s knock was far more frantic than Natasha’s, her voice somewhat breathless when she begged for an answer.

     “We just want to know you’re alright. Can we come in?”

     “Behold the work of Captain America. Here, let me –”

     “Tony –”

     “Stark, don’t –”

     “Anthony Edward –”

     “Mr Stark, I would not –”

     Too late. Tony opened the door, expecting to see a red ball curled up in the middle of Pepper’s bed, arms wrapped around one of her memory foam pillows, perhaps with the duvet pulled up to hide her face from the outside world. He had more than his fair share of days like that, especially after New York, but she would sit down beside him, tempt him with hot, fresh coffee, food that he _really_ should not eat – she was not a perfect psychiatrist, after all, which meant she absolutely was – and gradually get him to talk and, as much as he despised admitting it, he always felt better afterwards.

     Well, not “better”, per say. But he certainly never felt any worse.

     The sight that greeted Tony, however, caught him mid-step, slackening his jaw and his grip on the door, which he would have careened into if not for Natasha’s quick reflexes. Behind him, Pepper shrieked, which was when she jumped up, red dress and all – her underwear matched, that was a nice touch – blushing as violent as the silk she wore, before disappearing in a kaleidoscope of light. It was, Tony though, much like watching the _Millennium Falcon_ jump to lightspeed, except it was, at once, far more entertaining, and ten times more terrifying.

     She succinctly summed up the whole experience.

     “ _Agh!_ My eyeballs!”

     The aforementioned eyeballs dematerialised in a set of spiralling golden rings, each folding into themselves until the optic illusion disappeared entirely. The mischievous, sinister, and entirely too happy laugh that accompanied it was joined by a pair of luminescent blood red eyes, the last things to vanish from sight, leaving Pepper’s bedroom quiet empty, except for a discarded pair of red kitten heels. One lay miserably on the window seat, half hanging off the edge, while the other sat pertly atop Pepper’s bedside table, poised for Prince Charming to try it on the foot of his blushing bride to be.

     Someone slapped him on the back, and Tony choked out the breath he had held, sucking in gasps as he collapsed in a squabbling tangle of limbs on the window seat. When he looked up, hand clutching his beating heart, panting for air to fill his burning lungs, it was Sam sitting beside him, smiling. Natasha was leaning against the now closed door, a puzzling expression on her face, one caught between an angry mother bear, a confused Hulk, and that spine shivering smile she favoured when someone stole her morning cup of coffee. Pepper stood in the middle of the doorway, eyes transfixed on the bed, face pale enough to cause him concern, but Tony was quite preoccupied trying to breathe.

     He meant to say “Pepper”, but his first coherent word sounded suspiciously like, “Unbelievable!” He was, it seemed, too shock to swear. An effect that rarely lasted long.

     “I know!” Natasha rounded. “Did you – No, of course, you didn’t. Sam?”

     “If the shoe fits,” he beamed, raising a red slipper.

     “You _knew_?” Pepper cried, incredulous. “And why was he _blue_?”

     “I think the more important question is: why _your_ room?” Tony growled. “No. Why was he – and she – and how – when…” He took a deep breath, in and out through the nose, before squarely declaring, “I am going to have _words_ with Thor.”

     “Okay. Let’s back up a minute,” Sam reasoned. “Just because we have _no_ idea what just happened doesn’t mean anything nefarious is unfolding beneath our noses.”

     “That’s _exactly_ what it means!” Tony argued, standing to let Pepper sit, only to claim Sam’s seat the moment he stood.

     “He’s plotting something,” Natasha declared, face drawn. “He has to be.”

     “I sincerely doubt that,” Sam denied. “Well, not beyond his usual pranks, that is. He’s lived here for… two years, now, right? If he wanted something – or someone – he’d have had a year – two years – to get it with us none the wiser. Perhaps he took advantage of the situation. Perhaps she did as well. They’re both consenting adults.”

     “No! No, no, no – I can’t think about that!”

     “Tony’s, she’s a grown – woman. You can’t hold her hand forever.”

     “I’m not holding her hand. I don’t hold hands.”

     “No, he really doesn’t,” Pepper seconded.

     “Maybe we missed something,” Natasha plotted. “Maybe the dress wasn’t meant to impress Steve at all.”

     “We can just ask her in the morn –”

     “Morning? _Tomorrow?_ What are you thinking, Sam? No, don’t answer that. You’re not thinking. I’m going to –”

     “Take a minute to catch your breath before you have a heart attack,” Natasha insisted, not unkindly. “I can get Thor to –”

     “No. No, Tony’s right.”

     “Pepper… did you just – Did you hear that? Did _everyone_ hear that?”

     “We need to talk to Thor. And Steve. And Sharon, for that matter. We need to get to the bottom of this sooner rather than later.”

     “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

    “Not now, Tony,” she chastised, smiling. “Sam, could you –”

     “I can cover Cap.”

     “And I can question Sharon.”

     “It’s not an interrogation –”

     “It most certainly is!”

     “Tony, please. We have to act like rational adults, if only to reassure our guests.”

     “Oh. Right. I forgot about them. Can we just –”

     “Not if you want to go to France.”

     “We’ll leave you two lovebirds to it,” Sam grinned.

     “We can swap gossip at the after-party,” Natasha concluded, closing the door behind her. Only after she heard the lock did she say, “What the actual fuck?”

     “Not you, too!”

     “Did you just _see_ what I saw?”

     “Since I was standing at the back? Probably not. But I saw enough.”

     “And you don’t think he’s plotting anything?”

     “Tasha, Loki is _always_ plotting something, but it is usually against Thor or…”

     “Or?”

     “Or Steve.” A pregnant pause. “Jealousy?”

     “Motivation.”

     "Love triangle?”

     “…Not impossible.”

     “You’re just pissed you missed it.”

     “Could _you_ have anticipated _this_?”

     “No, but I think he’s been stewing for a while. No, think about it. He always whines about those meetings, but he doesn’t curse her for pestering him.”

     “I don’t think Loki can… curse anyone. My God!”

     “What?”

     “Sharon!”

     “What about her?”

     “What if Loki instigated –”

     “Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold your horses. You think he’d tease and torture himself over one – what does he call us? Middlings?”

     “Midgardians.”

     “That. Right. You think he’d tease and torture himself over one Midgardian for the last two years when he is showering in propositions?”

     “Humans are fickle,” Natasha shrugged. “But, if you _are_ right, then that means Steve instigated this.”

     “No. No, Steve wouldn’t –”

     “He dances on eggshells around her, Sam. Sometimes, I think he has half a mind to punch her.”

     “You’re not wrong, but you’re not right, either. I think… I think he _does_ like her. He’s just… torn. He lost Peggy to old age, and yes, I know, they’re both going to age at the same rate, unlike him, but Sharon’s an Agent. He doesn’t like keeping secrets, Tasha, but he doesn’t want to stop working for S.H.I.E.L.D. He can’t choose between two halves of himself.”

     “After tonight, he might not have the chance.” Natasha’s expression shuttered, like a camera closing its eye, a blind cyclops screaming ‘Nobody hurt me!’


	5. The Widow at Work

     “Hey! Sharon! Do you have a minute?”

     “Tasha, hey. How _are_ you? Where have you been all night?”

     “Waylaying Loki’s latest prank which… turned out to be much _less_ of a prank than I anticipated.”

     “Is everyone alright?”

     “Hey, Steve. No, the guests are fine, though I think Tony’s going to wrap up the evening early, just to be safe.”

     “Is there anything we can do?” he asked, passing a tropically coloured umbrella drink to Sharon.

     She smiled demurely, and perhaps a little too perfectly…

     “Sam was looking for you earlier. He seems to think you might be his next target.”

     “Again? Thanks for the warning. Sharon, can I –”

     “Go save the world,” she shooed, still smiling. “I have a friendly neighbourhood assassin to protect me.”

     Natasha offered a wink, watching the couple accept chaste kisses on the cheek – they had certainly been far more adventurous earlier – before she hooked her arm with Sharon’s and drew the blonde aside.

     “OK. What did I do now?”

     “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

     Sharon heaved a sigh, setting aside her drink in favour of running a hand through her long hair. “I know the… situation with Steve and I isn’t ideal, but…”

     “But?” Natasha prompted. “You’re certainly playing your cards well.”

     “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     “You know _exactly_ what I mean.”

     She took a seat at an abandoned corner of the bar, sipped her drink, screwed her lips up in distaste, and slid it aside to Natasha, who promptly slid it out of reach entirely.

     “She… She made quite a scene last week, at Steve’s… meeting.”

     “He invited you along.”

     Natasha did not ask, she knew, but Sharon nodded nevertheless.

     “I wasn’t… ‘Comfortable’ is the wrong word, but I wasn’t comfortable with it. She told Steve she was going to be blunt, and she was perfectly respectful to aunt Peggy, though she _did_ keep calling her Miss Carter…”

     “Steve didn’t like that.”

     “No… he didn’t. She said her piece, asked us to seriously consider our relationship and who it would impact, and I’ll admit, I mouthed off at her. She took it like a champ. Bottled her tears back, and even Steve couldn’t make her crack.”

     “You disagreed with her.”

     “Yeah. At… At first.”

     “But now you’ve changed your mind.”

     “Don’t get me wrong, Tasha. Steve is all I could ever ask, want, or _need_ in a man, and more besides, but I’ll have to cut through a lot of red tape to get there. I don’t want to lie to her. I don’t want to lie to Steve, either. And neither does Steve. To her, I mean. They… They’re close.”

     “You think they could be more.”

     “It’s his fixation on Aunt Peggy. There’s a bullet beneath the scar, but Steve doesn’t want to take it out.”

     “Do you think he should?”

     “I – I think… _Part_ of me thinks he should just wash his hands clean of this whole mess. Start over. Start fresh. If not with me, I can handle that. She’d be good for him, you know.”

     “I do.”

     “But the other part knows he needs that closure. She knows it, too. Keeps trying to guide him towards accepting the inevitable, but he won’t hear anything of it. He couldn’t save Bucky, he can’t save Peggy, and he’s worried that, if she gets involved, he won’t be able to save her, either.”

     “Who do you think he’d choose? In the end.”

     “I have no way of knowing.”

     “And if he had to choose right now?”

     “…Why would he have to do that?”

     “Because a new player has entered the game.”

     For a moment, Sharon simply stared at her superior. Almost a full minute had passed before she plastered a hand to her mouth.

     “No!”

     “Yes.”

     “You think he’s going to try to… get involved?”

     “He already has, Sharon.”

     Another minute passed. Then another.

     “She ran from the bar crying, didn’t she?” Sharon asked halfway through the third minute.

     “Most likely.”

     “She… She gave up on him?”

     “Looks that way.”

     “ _Looks_?”

     Natasha shrugged, unfazed. “It might be different in the morning. She’s not one for making rash decisions.”

     “I thought that dress looked new.”

     The silence that envelopes them is neither tense nor uncomfortable, but Natasha finds herself breaking it anyway.

     “He returned her shoe.”

     “What? She lost… Like in the fairy-tale?”

     “He _is_ a member of the Asgardian royal family.”

     “But she doesn’t see him that way,” Sharon declared, the deduction prideful in its confidence. “She didn’t see Steve as a soldier, either. Not at first. He said she treated him like a young man stranded far from home. She said she could relate.”

     “There hasn’t been any more chatter on that end.”

     “Think they’ve finally given up?”

     “They’re as indecisive as Steve sometimes.”

     “But she’s safe? Tonight, I mean.”

     “Loki won’t let anything happen to her.”

     The statement sails off her tongue like a bullet blasting free from the barrel: perfectly natural. It was only as the words hung in the air, as she studied the characters, that Natasha’s mind pieced the puzzle together. Sharon could not speak Russian, but she knew the sound of an explanative when she heard it.

     “What? What’s wrong?”

     “I have to find Thor!”

     “Try the lounge! Helen commandeered him hours ago!” Sharon shouted, receiving a back-handed wave for her efforts.


	6. An Exercise in Imagining

     “Excuse me. Sorry. Pardon me. Good evening. Could I just squeeze through? Thank you.”

     “Cap! There you are! Never thought I’d ever lose someone like you in a crowd.”

     “Honestly, I think Tony’s parties get worse every year.”

     “Try every _month_.”

     “No help from Loki on that account,” he groused.

     “Tasha told you?”

     “Another prank went out of control. What else is new? And, apparently, I’m the target. Again. I can spare Sharon the embarrassment, at least.”

     “I don’t think Sharon has anything to worry about.”

     “Oh?”

     “Walk with me?”

     “Don’t tell me the walls have ears.”

     “And eyes, but Pepper wants to avoid outcry among the media. You know, now that I think about it, it’d make quite the story.”

     “What would? Loki’s prank?”

     “Eh… It’s not so much a prank as a… as a… I suppose it puts you in ‘check’, so to speak.”

     “Check? We’re playing chess, now?”

     “You have been playing chess two ways for months, now.”

     “Not this again.”

     Sam came to a stop by a small waterfall erected for the occasion. “The game’s changed, Steve.”

     “…What do you mean?”

     “I don’t know the ins and outs of it all, but… Ugh. You remember _Midsummer Night’s Dream_?”

     “Shakespeare, yeah. ‘The course of true love never did run –’ What is this about, Sam? Sharon?”

     “I’m going to play one of those ‘imagine’ games our psychiatrist loves so much.”

     “She’s not a psychiatrist, Sam.”

     “Don’t care. She’s probably just as effective as the jackasses I’d pay thousands for, and I’d very much like to _keep_ my money, thank you. But we’ve gotten off topic. Right. Imagine a square - better yet, a baseball pitch. Hm? You’re at home base, and Loki is standing opposite you at third base. Sharon’s at first base, and –”

     “And my psychiatrist is at fourth base, I got it, Sam. What’s the point of this?”

     “Logically, you would run to first base, right? You hit the ball, you run. But we both know a part of you wants to turn the _other_ way and run to fourth base. Following me so far?”

     “You’ve never minced your words before, Sam.”

     “This is a very delicate situation. Or it maybe it's a volcano waiting to explode. I don’t have enough information to jump to conclusions either way.”

     Steve buried a sigh as he leaned against the wall, arms folded, resigned to riding out the lecture. “Why is Loki at third base? Opposing team?”

     “Definitely. He catches your ball – _after_ it lands – but throws it back to home base, catching your pining psychiatrist out.”

     “She’s not… Pining? Really?”

     “Did you _see_ her dress, Steve?”

     “She’s never dressed up for me before.”

     “ _Seriously_? Whatever. Look. Loki could have kept the ball and caught Sharon out. Maybe even you, too. But he _didn’t_. Why do you think that is?”

     “To prove a point,” Steve shrugged, his answer instantaneous.

     “What _kind_ of point? Think about it.”

     Steve does think, staring at the waterfall as if it had morally, and mortally, offended him. By the time the cogs click into place, someone has long since turned it off, leaving the water to lie stagnant at the bottom of the pool. There is a disgusting combination of drinks merging right before their eyes.

     “He’s trying to steal –”

     “You haven’t _claimed_ anything, Steve. Or anyone, for that matter. Nor do you own either of them.”

     “Sam! I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that.”

     “I know. But after she ran off, Loki played the role of Prince Charming, and I think Tasha would agree with me when I say he did a pretty good job.”

     “Was that why she was drinking?”

     “Why didn’t you _ask_ her?”

     “I… I thought she came with a date. The dress,” he adds, as if that explains everything.

     "Even when she asked you to dance?"

     Steve says nothing, and Sam copies him, finger and thumb pinching the corners of his closed eyes.

     “She… She never came back to the party, did she?”

     “No.”

     Somewhere, a door closes, and the distant sound of disappointed partygoers fades into the background. The fountain basin has turned the colour of rusted coppers.

     “What do I do, Sam?”

     “Mate. I honestly don’t know. Talk to her, maybe? Don’t know where she’s gone, though. And I don’t know if… interrupting them is a good idea.”

     “He – She… Really?”

     “Surprised us all. Tony about had a heart attack.”

     “Tony _saw_?”

     “They were still clothed, Steve.” A pause. “Were you thinking about –”

     “I am _now_! I didn’t think she did… that.”

     “She’s had a rough night, Cap. And in his defence, I don’t think Loki took advantage. He’s been pulling pranks on you for a while, now.”

     Steve turns, resting his head against the wall, denting it with a fist for good measure. “How could I have been so _blind_?”

     “He fooled us all. Even Tasha. And… ah. I should probably say she went to…um, question Sharon.”

     “She would do. They’re close. The training… She’d always get distracted when I tried –” Steve’s head collides with the wall, leaving another sizable dent. “Mary and Joseph!”

     “And the hits just keep on –”

     “GOOD FOR YOU, LOKI!”

     Thor’s boisterous, victorious laughter was unmistakable, as was the Captain’s righteous fury.


	7. Grilling the God of Thunder

     “I must admit, my brother is far more knowledgeable about such areas, Lady Cho. Many of these afflictions you describe sound familiar, but as to whether Asgardian remedies would be effective on Midgardians, I cannot say.”

     “It would be very easy to gather a group of volunteers to determine this. Some of these people have already given up hope of ever living a normal life, and many have resigned themselves to the fate of a slow and agonising death.”

     “I can speak to my parents on my next visit, but I promise nothing. Please wait until I have sent word with a raven and –”

     “Um. Sorry, Thor?”

     “Yes, Brother Banner?”

     “An email might be more… effective.”

     “Father’s ravens are very reliable, my friend.”

     “I don’t doubt that, but what are the chances of them surviving a trip… across the Bifrost to Midgard?”

     “They travel throughout the Nine Realms regularly, though I do not know how often they visit Midgard. That might pose a problem. They are notorious curious beasts. And if any Midgardian tried to shoot them or, Odin forbid, try to _touch_ them, I fear for their victims.”

     “Please tell me you have been talking about something _other_ than murderous birds.”

     “Brother Stark! Are you well? You look pale. A drink will help cure whatever ails you.”

     “Yes. Yes, a drink sounds _very_ good right about now.”

     “Tony. Aren't you forgetting something?”

     “Miss Potts! Thank you for letting me come tonight. I am eternally grateful.”

     “You're very welcome. And I see Thor’s mannerisms are catching,” Pepper smiled.

     “Manners are, I have learned, vastly undervalued on Midgard.”

     “I can’t argue with that,” Bruce denied, handing an ice water over to Pepper, and a measure of whiskey to Tony.

     “So, what brings you to our humble little corner?” Helen asked, half hiding behind her half-full glass of lilac lemonade.

     “Loki,” Tony stated, before downing his whiskey.

     To the billionaire’s abject horror, Bruce filled it with water, but he was halfway through his first swallow before he noticed.

     “I will get you back for that, Banner.”

     “I’m well aware. But first, priorities.”

     “We just wanted to ask a few questions about his… interests.”

     “If my brother has done anything underhanded, I assure you, he will answer to me, my lady.”

     “No, he hasn’t –”

     “Yes, he most…. certainly has. Are we not on the same page here?”

     “We don’t _know_ enough about the situation to pass judgement, Tony.”

     “Bullshit. _Ugh_. Water.”

     “Er, should I leave or…?”

     “No, please stay, Helen. We might have need of your… particular talents.”

     “Unless anyone suffers from grievous bodily injuries, I don’t see how helpful I can be.”

     “We’re hoping it doesn’t come to that.”

     “Perhaps we should start at the beginning.”

     “Agreed, Brother Banner. You are acting most unlike yourself, my friends.”

     “It’s a very… sensitive situation.”

     “Hardly. Capsicle waited too long and Loki stepped up his game. Literally.”

     “Ah. You speak of our resident Healer. How has – Wait. Do you mean to say that Loki approached her? I have hardly seen him all evening.”

     “He has been unusually subdued today,” Bruce frowned. “I’m not complaining. Just… observing.”

     “There was a rumour that he was going to play another prank on Captain America,” Helen added.

     “If he is indeed intending to court our friend, he would try to eliminate his competition in the most chaotic and embarrassing manner possible.”

     “Do you think he would? Court her, I mean,” Pepper clarified.

     “To annoy our Captain? Most certainly.”

     “What if his… feelings are genuine?”

     “Have you evidence of such feelings?”

     “Pepper’s bedroom,” Tony saluted, frowning at the lemonade Bruce poured into his glass.

     “We… interrupted them before anything happened.”

     “He was _all over her_ , Pepper!”

     “They were fully clothed, Tony. And shoes don’t count.”

     “Courtships are not usually started so intimately in Asgard, and our friend is not one to act so rashly.”

     “Its been an emotional day for her.”

     “I saw her dress,” Helene nodded, eyes twinkling wistfully. “But her date never showed up. She must have danced with half the Avengers tonight.”

     “But _not_ Mr-No-Swears-Zone.”

     “Really, Tony?”

     “Swearing is cathartic!”

     “Is that your psychiatrist talking again?”

     “She’s not wrong, unfortunately,” Bruce offered softly.

     “Does this mean my brother was not involved in any wrongdoing?”

     “Yes, he –”

     “No, Loki… was. Again, Pepper? You screamed!”

     “I was surprised! How many times have you see a blue-skinned and red-eyed Loki?”

     Thor shuffled forward in his seat, the thick leather armrests bowing under his strength. “He showed his true form?”

     “I’d damn well say he did! No, not lemonade. Whiskey. Or wine, if you must.”

     “ _One_ glass, Tony. Your regime hasn’t changed.”

     “Thanks, mom.”

     “I wasn’t aware Asgardians had more than one form,” Helen expressed, her eyes alight, intrigued.

     “Loki is not my brother by birth, Lady Cho. He was adopted at a very young age. My father originally brought him from Jotunheim, home of the Frost Giants. Loki… only discovered his true heritage recently, and at great expense. Mother warned me that he goes to great pains to maintain the magic that creates the illusion of a human form. Loki _rarely_ relinquishes such control around me. For him to do so before a Midgardian – I mean no offence – implies that he finds her worthy of knowing this truth. He considers it, I think, a great shame – his greatest shame – but, from what I have heard, and from what I have seen, I do not think our Healer agrees.”

     “That sounds _so_ romantic,” Helen sighed, all smiles and eyes aflutter. “Just like Beauty and the Beast.”

     “I am not familiar with this story.”

     “I can introduce you to the Brothers Grim. I mean, if you like. Perhaps… over dinner sometime? They researched folklore extensively. We might even find some correlations between our histories.”

     “I should like that very much, Lady Cho.”

     “Back to the problem at hand!” Tony chimed, decidedly too perky for such a late hour. “Are you saying our resident prankster has… _feelings_ for our psychiatrist?”

     “It appears that way, Brother Stark, and it is as much a surprise to you as it is to me. Although, it would explain his fixation on the Captain. He admires our Healer also, does he not?”

     “Obviously,” Bruce acknowledged, “but he took far too long dancing around the bush.”

     “Is this part of the party’s festivities?”

     “No, Thor. He means Cap took his sweet ass time to make a move, so Loki made it first.”

     “I see. Personally, I cannot blame my brother, even if he acted rashly this evening. Playing with affairs of the heart never end well, and I cannot believe Loki would expose himself so if he feared rejection.”

     “What if he played the odds?” Bruce asked.

     “I think the odds _fell_ in his favour tonight, my friend. I know she asked the Captain to dance, and that he declined. Regardless of, or perhaps in light of, the differences that unfolded between them recently, I believe she took this dismissal as an indicator that –”

     Pepper sprang to her feet. “You think Steve _rejected_ her?”

     “Perhaps not in so many words. But he is most affectionate with Agent Carter, perhaps more so than is wise. Asgardians are warriors at heart, but no one is immune to jealousy.”

     “Wait a minute,” Tony pressed, rising as the last of his wine disappeared. “You’re saying Steve said no, she ran away, Loki _comforted_ her, and the foreplay was –”

     “What if she felt the same way?” Helen raised. “I don’t know her very well, but a lot of people are sceptical of my work, and she has been nothing but supportive.”

     “So, it _was_ consensual.”

     “Can you not ask her in the morning, my friend?”

     “We’re worried how Steve will react,” Pepper consoled.

     “Ah, yes. The pranks.”

     “That makes sense, though.” All heads swivelled to Bruce, but to his credit, he did not flinch. Or avoid eye contact. “If Loki _does_ feel anything for her, then watching Steve flirt with her feelings wouldn’t sit right with him. Or me, for that matter.”

     “Careful, big guy. I don’t think Steve knows how deep grave he’s dug himself.”

     Tony was in the process of sitting back down, enraptured with his empty glass, but bolted upright at Natasha’s approach, much to Pepper’s amusement. Unfortunately, Bruce only gave him bottled water from the mini bar in compensation, indignantly unaware of the sheepish smile Bruce was trying to hide.

     “Sister Scarlet! I trust you are aware of the events that transpired this evening.”

     “Very much so, Thor, and I have a question for you.”

     “As you Midgardians are so fond of saying: hit me!”

     Natasha chuckled. It almost sounded natural. “Do you remember that underground base we raided in Germany?”

     “The Snake’s prison! Aye, what of it?”

     “When we saw the real-time recording of the Tower, Loki left.”

     “Aye,” Thor nodded, his mood suddenly sombre. “Had he not, we would have lost a valuable Healer.”

     “And he regained his magic soon after.”

     “Indeed, he did. Mother was quite certain that he… that he would not have survived without it. Odin’s beard!” Thor roared, bounding up to his full height. “GOOD FOR YOU, LOKI!” he cheered, laughing for all the world to hear. “Good for you!”

     “What did I miss?” Tony scowled.

     Thor sat down so heavily that the chair nearly expired on the spot and, from the shockwave his descent created, Helen practically bounced in hers.

     “I was once exiled to Earth because my father deemed me unworthy of my powers. I became mortal, and something similar was affixed upon Loki for the crimes he committed here, in Midgard. Loki retained his innate reserves of magic, but once they were depleted, he would have none until he regained our father’s favour. Mother said he used more magic than was wise to reach the Tower, but that selfless act, sacrificing everything he held dear for the protection of another, reinstated his power.”

     “Which allowed him to survive long enough for us to utilise the ICU cradle,” Helen exclaimed. “He could have died!” 

     “He very nearly did, Lady Cho. And that, Brother Stark, answers all your concerns. Our friend is in safe hands with Loki. He would die to protect her, and I have no doubt that she would do the same for him.”

     “What about Steve?”

     “Er, Natasha…”

     “It’s alright, Brother Banner. Sister Scarlet is well acquainted with the price of inaction, and those are consequences the Captain will have to face come morning.”

     Bruce buried his head atop the bar, but all others turned to the electric whirling of the lounge door opening, closing, and the elevator descending. They would have seen it ascending to the apartments. Sam stood alone, making a face, his eyes trained on Natasha. She smirked, entirely unapologetic, as Thor frowned.

     “Was it something I said?”

     “No, Thor,” Natasha replied. “It was something Steve didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the endless updates. I wanted to post this before I forgot. Also, this work has not been betaed, so I hope it makes as much sense to you as it does to me. Lastly, I took a few liberties with the reader for a friend, so if I tread on anyone's toes, I apologise. Have a nice day! - AS.


End file.
